


To the Land of the Forsaken

by undercat



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-24
Updated: 2018-09-24
Packaged: 2019-07-24 22:25:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16184417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/undercat/pseuds/undercat
Summary: In the darkness of Valinor, Turgon and his family decide to leave for Beleriand.





	To the Land of the Forsaken

**Author's Note:**

> Quenya names and some words are used in the text. See the endnotes for translations.

Turukáno slumped in the courtyard of his house, gazing aimlessly at the fountain. He had spent much time in council with his friends, talking logistics and supplies (he knew not how long it had been, not without Treelight as a clock). But now he was empty, drained; he had no more words and his thoughts were dulled. Yet when he felt the presence of his wife drawing near, he drew himself up and turned towards the entrance.

Elenwe stood between two columns, straight and proud and fair; in her hand was a lantern with a dim, blue lampstone, but brighter to his eyes was she herself, lit by an inner light. She smiled to see him, but he felt the smile in her mind more than he saw it on her lips; his ancestors had awoken under stars, but Turukáno had been born in light and his eyes were not accustomed to this terrible dark.

“Beloved,” said Elenwe, coming up to him; she hung the light-stone on a branch and peered up at his face. “Turvo, you should sleep.”

“How can I?” he said. “There is much to do.”

He felt her skepticism, knew her to be right: he was doing nothing much of anything now.

“At least look at the stars,” she said softly, “if you would rather stare than sleep.”

He would rather not look at them. They might be lovely, but the black sky was not. It should have been a bright indigo, or a gold, not this blank formless un-color. He had never seen something so black: even on the eastern side of Tol Eressea there was still a dim glow of the Trees in the West. _Had been_ a dim glow; now the entire world was dark.

She sighed, and took him in her arms. He buried his head in her hair, no longer burnished gold to his eyes, but some strange, washed out color. But it smelled the same, his favorite perfume of hers: milky tea and osmanthus.

She let him stay like that for a time, then pulled just slightly away.

“I was talking to Súrenda; I hope you didn't worry for my absence,” she said. “Oh, don't give me that look; she's my friend, and she didn't stop being my friend just because she followed your uncle to Formenos. And besides, she told me much of note.”

“Half-uncle,” said Turukáno sullenly. He thought Elenwe might have rolled her eyes, but he couldn't _see,_ not with this lack of light.

“Well, she was asking me what to pack. Rye seeds, I told her, and warm furs for clothing. Really, she shouldn't have needed the reassurance: Formenos isn't too dissimilar to Hekeldamar in climate.”

“Rye?” asked Turukáno, dimly. It was a marginal crop, planted only in the far north, near to the Ekkaia.

“Hekeldamar is far colder than Tirion,” said Elenwe. “I doubt rice will grown there, or teff or millet.”

She must be right, of course, his practical wife. She had been born on the Great March, and not long after the Minyar had left Kuiviénen. He should have asked her earlier, but his father had delegated the issue of food supplies to his aunt Lalwen, who was one of the Yavannildi, not to him. And… Turukáno admitted to himself that he had not been at his most rational as of late.

“As you say,” he answered. But why were they talking of grains?

“Elenwe,” he said, suddenly urgent, “are you coming with me?” He didn't know what he wanted her answer to be.

“Am I... Turvo, what? Of course I am.”

Turukáno squeezed his eyes shut. He didn't know if he were glad or terrified. Perhaps both; perhaps neither.

“It won't be safe,” he said.

She sighed. “It wasn't just food supplies that Súrenda and I discussed,” she said. “She told me of the attack of Melkor – Moringotho now, I suppose, and that _Thing_ in his train, the Tree-killer. She said it was like a spider, but worse” - she ignored his muttered “Moringotto”; Elenwe had seen no need to shed the dialect of her people upon marrying him. “What she said, Turvo, the panic in her voice, the horror in her thoughts… Finwe was not the only person to die at Formenos, you know. He may have been the only one slain by this Enemy, but others were trampled underfoot as people fled from the Unlight, or their hearts failed for the terror. I will grant that Valinor may be safer than Hekeldamar, now that our Enemy has left, but there has been violence here too, and I will not flinch from danger.”

And knowing that, she would still leave?

“I would hardly say _chasing after_ the gods that caused such carnage is safer than staying in the land they left,” he said tartly. But... “Neither can I say in truth that it will displease me to have you with me, though it brings fear to my heart. But your king, my kinsman Ingwe, has forbidden the Vanyar to depart.” She _would_ be safer here, and the thought of his wife perishing, extinguished…

Elenwe sniffed. “If any gainsay me, I will tell them with truth that I have bound myself to you, and that by our marriage I am become a Ñoldo. If your people leave, well, they are my people now too. And besides...”

She paused for a long moment, her head tilted up to the sky. Her eyes glowed, and Turukáno's heart could break for love of her.

“I was born in the far lands, beloved,” she said softly, “I was born under the stars; I was named for the stars. I loved them. When I came to this land, I loved the Trees in their stead, and missed them not. But now… For all the terror and fear and anger in my stomach, I thought that some part of me would welcome the stars again. But I look at the sky: these are not the stars I once knew. They are different here, far to the south. We stand on the girdle of the world, not the northern lands of my youth, and the stars I see here are strangers to me.”

She turned to him, and she _shone._ “If we must live in the dark, I would live under the stars that I love, not the ones which I do not know. I would return to the far country, Turvo; I would make myself an Avar, the first of my people to refuse Aman. And I will not be parted from you.”

What could he say to that? _You are light enough for me, even in this darkness,_ he thought to her.

Aloud he said, “A part of me wishes you would stay here in safety, and a part of me rejoices that you will come, and a part of me is glad that you would come for your own sake, and not just for mine.”

Elenwe laughed. “And a part of you will disapprove of me, for it was the words of your uncle – _half-_ uncle, if you must – who kindled in me this desire. _Golden cage:_ he is a fool; we are not thralls here. But his dreams of Hekeldamar… in truth, the fuel was there, in my heart, and the spark too – Feanáro only added oxygen to the flame.”

Turukáno snorted. “Oxygen?” he teased. “You _have_ become a Ñoldo.”

He felt the warmth in her soul, the flame of her love. “Oh, I'm not like you, dearest; I've just learned some of your vocabulary. But tell me, what is it _your_ heart desires? And don't tell me filial duty, nor revenge for your grandfather and king.”

Turukáno was not sure he wanted to leave Aman. Unlike Elenwe, he had been born in Valinor. He was a friend to Tulkas and more than that, he respected and honored the gods, and they had spoken against Feanáro's foolhardy plans. But he had no choice: his father was leaving, and Turukáno must follow him (and Ñolofinwe was not the least wise of the Ñoldor). And yet...

He thought. He had leapt to his father's side and spoken against Feanáro, but his half-uncle's words had stirred something in his heart too, not the promise of far-reaching lands to rule, but what could be done there, what could be _built_ there.

Turukáno had always thought he was born too late: at his birth Tirion had been built, and Alqualonde, and Valmar had been sung into being. And he knew, he _knew,_ that he could make a fairer city still. Oh, on certain practical levels it wouldn't be difficult to improve upon the cities of Aman – plumbing had improved since Tirion had been built, and Turukáno himself had devised how to reinforce building frames with steel, but... To make a city of his own, to design it, to lay the founding stones himself!

He thought of what his heart desired. His hands itched to be at work.

“I am an architect, and a craftsman,” he said, slow at first, gradually gaining speed of speech. “Hekeldamar will be my canvas, my uncarved rock, my uncut gem. I will make for you a _city_ , Elenwe, a place fair enough to frame even you, with buildings of metal and glass and white stone, and the stars shall reflect upon it as light refracts in a diamond. I shall build you a garden, where the trees are made of gold and the flowers of gems.”

She reached up to touch his cheek. “Yes,” she said, “yes. I would see you build it: but make sure there is grass or moss in this garden of yours – actual grass, not emeralds or green lacquer or whatever your Ñoldorin tastes dictate, for I will wish to dance in it!”

At that, Turukáno laughed with sudden joy, as he had not since Feanáro had lain a sword to his father's throat.

“Moss? What about a frozen lake to skate on, like those ice fields in the high mountains, where your people dance with blades on their feet? I shall make it of many-colored glass of course-”

She smacked his arm lightly, laughing in turn. “You shall make it of _ice_ , I insist! Though if you must, you could set in it gems that glow and sparkle – is that gaudy enough for you?”

“My taste is not _gaudy!_ ” But Turukáno could see it in his mind's eye, Elenwe twirling on the ice, Itarille racing around her. _Itarille_...

Elenwe caught the turn of his thought and sobered as well.

“It is her I worry for, not me,” she said. “She thinks herself an adult, but she is yet a child – what shall we tell her, what would we have her do? If she were but a touch younger, I would send her to stay with my family or your grandmother.”

“That would probably be best, yes. And she _is_ young, and if we bring her, we will put her in danger.”

Elenwe sighed. “Itarille is forty-six – no, not grown, not fully, but old enough to have a say in her future. Can we command her to stay; should we? In truth, I hope she wishes to come: it terribly selfish, but I would have her be with us – which in turn makes me think she should stay, since I am clearly biased.”

Selfishly, Turukáno would have her with them too: he did not wish to be parted from his daughter, nor see her parted from Elenwe. And: _Kolindelen_ Elenwe had named their child, _star-bearer,_ and had said it was a name of foresight. He had a touch of the Sight himself, but the future was mutable and made by choices... With a sudden certainty, he knew that they must not forbid her to leave Aman.

“Let her decide,” he said.

Elenwe looked at him. _What did you see just then?_

He shook his head, unsure.

She opened her mouth to reply, but there was a noise by the garden entrance and it was their daughter.

“Itaril my sweet,” said Elenwe, “I thought you were with your uncle.”

Itarille blinked at them. “Oh,” she said, “We must travel light, so Findaráto and I thought it would be wise to see how our jewelry would look under different light sources: torches and lampstones and stars all. It will make it easier to decide what to take – no need to bring a gem that flatters me by the stars but not firelight, so I came home to look.”

 _Your daughter_ , Elenwe muttered to his mind. _All you Ñoldor and your shiny objects._

My _daughter? You mean she's Findaráto's niece._ But he held out a hand to Itarille and she came into his arms, and into Elenwe's.

“My dear one.” Elenwe took her shoulders, held her at arm's length to look in her face. “Are you packing already? You know that you needn't come – you can stay here if you wish, or if your heart tells you so.”

Itarille tossed her hair, the same gold as her mother's. “I am no _child_ to be coddled.”

But then she stood straight and tall, sober and determined, and in her mien was the image of her mighty forebearers. “It is dangerous, yes. But my great-grandfather did not quail from danger -”

“Your great-grandfather _died,_ ” said Turukáno sharply.

“Yes,” Itarille answered. “He did. I am not foolhardy, and I will take his courage, not his death. Do not worry, Father: my fate will not be his. You ask what my heart tells me? It bids me go; I shall let no one gainsay me.”

Turukáno and Elenwe looked at each other; fear and pride mingled in their minds.

“Then I suppose we shall see the far land together,” said Elenwe briskly. “Though I insist you _will_ bring warm clothes as well as those caskets of jewelry, Itarille.”

Itaril laughed, and Elenwe smiled, and Turukáno felt lighter than he had in years.

**Author's Note:**

> Turukáno - Turgon. Turvo is an affectionate diminutive.
> 
> Feanáro - Feanor
> 
> Hekeldamar - Beleriand. Hekeldamar means 'forsaken-elf-home'
> 
> Moringotto - Morgoth. Moringotho is the Feanorian pronunciation, but also the one the Vanyar/Elenwe would use. 
> 
> Ñolofinwe - Fingolfin
> 
> Itarille - Idril. Itaril is a shortened version of Itarille
> 
> Findaráto - Finrod
> 
> Avar – singular of Avari, “refusers”, the Elves at Cuiviénen who refused to go to Valinor.
> 
> Minyar - Vanyar. Minyar means 'the firsts'; it is the Vanyar's own name for their tribe.
> 
> Kolindelen - Idril's made-up mother-name: it means star-bearer, which I intend to be a reference to Earendil: names given by Elven mothers were believed to be occasionally prophetic.


End file.
